Doctor's Orders
by ProtegoMaximaMyHeart
Summary: A sick Sherlock refuses to follow his doctor's orders. Not that John is going to give in anytime soon.


Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**A/N: Inspired by this picture from reapersun. The artwork is simply gorgeous!**** Instead of Sherlock being sick, I thought it would be better if he was sulking from being sick and he just had to suck it up and listen to John. My headcanon for John is that his love of Mumford and Sons comes from becoming really good friends with Lestrade, who recommends it to him. I peg them both as the guy's guy and I felt that this band fit well for them. The last two sentences are from Garden State, because I love that movie. I wanted to incorporate a small kiss, but I didn't want to have some weird tension between them before John initiated it. I just feel like everything in their relationship flows naturally, so there.**

The world's only consulting detective could fight off anything: Chinese smugglers, the Golum, Moriarty (for the time being) psychotic cabbies, and rabid hounds.

Well, almost anything.

For he was curled up on the couch, miserable and down with a cold.

It all started when they were trying to run down a couple of robbers who stole priceless diamond that belonged to some duchess in Scotland back in the 15th century. Apparently, one of the butlers who had worked in the castle had been trying to get his hands on it for years in order to make a nice profit selling it. He made up some story about how his "cousins" were looking for work, so he brought them in for "training." Needless to say, things didn't go according to plan for the "cousins".

They caught them, but at the price of running all over the place in the pouring rain. On the way back to London, John had urged Sherlock to take off his wet clothes when they got back to their flat because he would get sick if he didn't do otherwise. The latter insisted that it was irrelevant, to which the former fervently disagreed.

John changed into his favorite striped jumper and jeans and made himself a cup of tea once they returned. He sank back into his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace, which was crackling merrily. The fire helped with the blood returning to his fingers, toes and ears, which he swore went numb during the chase. He gulped down his Earl Gray tea, sighing at how the warmth slithered down his throat and filled him from the inside out. Pulling his well-worn copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ from the shelf, he flipped it open and let his mind get lost in the pages.

Sherlock ambled into the living room in his dressing gown and pajamas a few hours later, looking like he would rather spend an afternoon with Mycroft than admit that he was sick. He slumped onto the sofa and curled up into the fetal position away from him, grumbling. John looked up from his book, put it down, and walked over to his flatmate.

He craned over Sherlock to assess the damage. He peered up from underneath his mop of hair, regarding him with disgruntled eyes. The edge of his nose was red, probably from using too many tissues to clear the mucus out. There was a frown that seemed to have been permanently etched on his face.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"What do you think, **Doctor** Watson?"

"I think you just have a cold."

"Irrelevant. I deleted it."

He blinked. "How can you have deleted the common cold?"

"I told you before. Everything I store in here," he pointed to his head, "is relevant to my work."

"You should at least drink some juice, or eat some soup."

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"I'm **fine.**" A really loud sneeze cancelled out that statement.

John rolled his eyes. He booted up his laptop, opened Pandora and let his Mumford and Sons station play quietly in the background.

"What's with the music?"

"I can't cook without music."

Sherlock merely grunted and settled further into the couch.

John went into the kitchen and gathered the ingredients for chicken noodle soup. It took him a while to find a deep enough pot considering how much they eat out, but he managed to scour one in the vestiges of one of the cabinets. He turned the stove on, plunked the pot onto the burner, drizzled the oil into it, chopped the vegetables, and dropped them into the pot. The sounds of the vegetables sizzling in the pot brought back memories of cooking lessons with his mum and made him smile. He carefully sautéed them, making sure that they didn't get too brown. The next thing he added was the chicken broth, and then the chicken Mrs. Hudson left for them in the fridge. He added egg noodles, put the lid on the pot and then poured two glasses of orange juice for both of them. A little while later, he took off the lid and tasted it. It was still a little bland for his taste, so he added some salt and pepper. After he was satisfied with it, he ladled some soup into a bowl. He placed the bowl on a tray, along with a biscuit and a glass of orange juice.

"Sherlock, here's some homemade chicken noodle soup and orange juice. You need to eat something."

"No." His voice was muffled from the pillow.

Normally, John would've stepped out to deal with his behavior. Today was different though. He hated seeing him this out of it. They already acted like children when they were together, so he thought, "What the hell."

He walked around to the side of the couch where Sherlock's feet were and flopped on top of him. He let out an "Oof!" as John settled into a comfortable position.

"Get. Off. Of. Me." He growled.

"Not until you promise me you're going to eat."

"What good will it do?"

"It'll flush out toxins and loosen the mucus so that you don't blow out your eardrum when you blow your nose. Look at me."

Sherlock shifted his head and was surprised to find that their foreheads were touching. John's eyes twinkled, but they were also laced with concern. He leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock's. It took a second for him to register, but he kissed him back. He should've been shocked, but he was Sherlock and he was John and that was all that mattered. They parted and stared at each other.

"You realize that you're probably going to get sick now that we've exchanged body fluids, right?" Sherlock murmured.

"I thought you deleted the common cold."

"I did. That doesn't mean that I don't have knowledge about the human body."

John giggled, a sound that Sherlock stored. "I suppose that's a good thing. But you really need to eat. Doctor's orders."

He sat up and reached for his soup. It was better than that crap from a can that he used to eat when he actually wanted to eat, but was too lazy to cook. He finished his soup and biscuit, and leaned against John, content. John's arm went around him as he pulled them back onto the couch. It took some contorting on Sherlock's part with how long his legs were, but he snuggled against John's chest. John pressed a kiss against his forehead and rested his cheek against his curls. When he was with John, he felt so safe. Like he was home.


End file.
